Chapter 10 - THE LIGHT IN THE GARDEN
Six months later, the spring sun was warm on my face as I sat on the porch steps.
Our house was small—a simple, three-bedroom cottage on the edge of the city, far away from the neat, vinyl-sided suburbs of Chatham County. There were no columns, no security gates, and no manicured lawns designed to hide the secrets of the people inside.
But the garden was full of flowers.
Lily was running through the grass, her small blue sneakers kicking up dust as she chased a yellow butterfly. She was four years old now. The headaches had stopped, and her speech had returned to its bright, endless chatter, her voice carrying across the yard with a fearless, beautiful joy.
“Mommy! Look! I caught it!”
She ran up the steps, her hands closed together in a small, tight cup. She slowly parted her fingers, showing me nothing but a small piece of green clover she had picked from the lawn.
“It got away,” she said, her mouth turning down in a tiny pout.
“That’s okay, baby,” I said, pulling her into my lap and kissing her warm, sweet cheek. “Some things are meant to be free.”
James walked out of the house, holding two plates of sandwiches and a small, silver can of Sprite. He set the food on the table, then reached down to hand the soda to Lily.
“Did you ask permission, young lady?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with a quiet, gentle humor.
Lily looked up at him, her eyes bright and fearless.
“Please, Daddy,” she said, her small hand reaching out for the can.
“Always, baby,” James said, pressing the cold metal into her fingers. “Always.”
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We sat together on the porch, the warm spring breeze rustling the leaves of the oak trees above us. The shadow of the kitchen floor was gone, buried beneath the quiet, steady rhythm of a life built on respect, on safety, and on a love that didn't need a belt to make itself understood.
And as the sun began to set, casting a deep, golden light across the garden, I knew that we were finally, completely safe.
